Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
“Yeah. Birdie’s great, but I didn’t love being trapped in the house for four days. There was no escaping my own head. I couldn’t get in good workouts. A friend of my friends came by to help, and even though I don’t like her, it was just good to see another face.”
“Are you feeling any differences with your new medication dosage?”
I shift on the loveseat I’m sitting on, shaking my head. “I feel the same.”
“Still having intrusive thoughts?”
I look away. I fucking hate this. I don’t like talking about my feelings, but these sessions are required for me to get refills on my medications, and I can’t function without them.
For years, I refused to get professional help. I’d still be refusing, but I had a panic attack before a game last year, and our team doctor, Caroline, treated me for it. I thought it was a heart attack. I had to miss the game to go get tests at a hospital, and when everything else was ruled out, the doctors said it was a panic attack, and that those don’t happen for no reason.
Yeah, no shit. I knew I was struggling, but I thought I was managing. Well, other than not sleeping well and having panic attacks.
Now that I’m on meds for my depression and anxiety, it’s more manageable. I’m not fighting myself as hard as I used to. I don’t worry constantly about getting cut from the team. But I still have issues, and now I have the additional worry that people will find out I’m wearing a mask and taking medications to keep me from falling over the edge.
“I’ve been thinking I’m not good enough my entire life,” I say. “There’s no medication that’s going to change that.”
The doctor nods. “What do you think you’re not good enough for?”
I cross my arms in front of me, agitated. “You already know. My place on the team, my friends ...” I run a hand through my hair. “My whole life, I guess. It feels like I’m a fucking fraud and everyone around me is going to realize it. If I get cut from the team, I’ll lose my friends. My parents will be ashamed of me. Even if they don’t admit it.”
Dr. Laudner is in his mid-fifties. He embraces his baldness, shaving his head almost to the skin. He does triathlons and makes homemade pasta. I like him. But I still don’t like these conversations.
“Do you think your friends only value you because of your career success?”
I shake my head. “I know, I really do. I know they wouldn’t tell me to fuck off if I got traded. But I’d live somewhere else. I’d be on a different team. It wouldn’t be the same.”
“You find change hard.”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
“What are some of the changes you’ve experienced in life that have been hard for you?”
I study the pen on his coffee table, considering stabbing myself in the eye with it so I don’t have to talk about this. We’ve been over it many times. It’s best to just get it out of the way, I guess.
“You already know the biggest one. Kyle.”
“The death of a sibling is incredibly difficult, especially for a child.”
I rub my chest and take a deep breath. Just thinking about Kyle is enough to bring on an anxiety attack, even on my meds.
“I just want to be normal. I mean, look at me. I’m six-three, I’m fit, and I’m a professional athlete. People look at me and think I’ve got my shit together. But I can’t fucking stay in a room when a song by Foo Fighters comes on. I get physically ill.”
“Why do you think that is?”
I take a few more deep breaths, the tightness in my chest worsening. “That was his favorite band. We listened to their albums all the time.”
“Do you have happy memories of him?”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Yeah, of course. I need a subject change.”
He straightens the frame of his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Tell me about your new dog. Birdie, right?”
“Yeah. She likes to be with me all the time. I think she’s afraid I’m not going to come back when I leave.”
“Is she playful?”
“Sometimes. I’m trying to teach her to fetch tennis balls, but she doesn’t like bringing them back to me.”
He smiles. “I had a dog like that once. She’d fetch the ball and just keep running.”
“I guess as long as the dog’s having fun, that’s what matters.”
“That’s a good way to look at it.”
Before he can ask me another question, I ask him one. “Am I going to be like this forever? Are the medications doing as much for me as they’ll ever be able to?”
“We can always try new medications and dosages. Tell me what you mean by like this.”
“A mess on the inside who’s trying to make it look like I’m fine to anyone who sees me.”